Of High Functioning Sociopaths and Kitchen Knives
by Yukaido
Summary: "Booored." He was on his final knife now. The silverware drawer lay distressingly open and bare in the other room. The last piece of cutlery sailed through the air, decidedly dramatic and final as it struck the dead center of the bull's-eye. "Boooooored!"


**Hey all! This is Yukaido! It's been a while, hasn't it? What, close to one and a half years ago now since I last posted something new here? Good gosh. That was when I was in my first semester of college. What is this? Haha, so yes, I am finally back with some new material for any lovely readers who might still be out there. As per usual, I have been playing musical chairs with many, many wonderful fandoms. I never can seem to stay put in one place for long, unless your fandom goes by the name of Les Miserables, and more recently, Hetalia. In the past few weeks, I have been coming down from my Hetalia high, though I have a funny feeling that I'm probably going to be thrown headlong back into the box of tomatoes** **quite soon when I get back from another anime convention I am attending in two weeks. But, in the meantime, the fandom and TV show that currently owns my soul...**

**...is BBC's "Sherlock". **

**I fell head over heels in love with Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows, so of course the natural progression of that love was to turn to the widely talked about and acclaimed current day series of Sherlock Holmes broadcast by BBC to get my Detective Holmes fix. And once again, that one episode to pass some time before heading off to work instantaneously had me falling in love. It truly is an amazing show, and I think I can honestly say my favorite TV series I have ever watched. Ever. Just wow. And of course, the gay joke pool the creators of "Sherlock" have kindly started for us Shwatson fans. As if I wasn't a fan of Shwatson BEFORE BBC Sherlock's spin on the pair. Now I'm positively rabid.  
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**So, this idea came to me the other day. I wanted to write out a scene in which John's true feelings for Sherlock are revealed, but rather than it being a blushing, flustered, and stuttering confession (my normal piece of cake), I really wanted to write John as being quite stoic and at ease with the knowledge that he was in love with Sherlock and standing his ground proudly and unafraid when Sherlock became aware of it. I really just love the idea that John would act this way rather than blustering about. I can really thank all the fanfic writers out there who have written a side of John that reflects his previous serving in the army for the entertaining of, and actual execution, of this idea.**

**I hope you all enjoy this story, please leave me some comments on what you thought, and most importantly...have some Shwatson!_ :)  
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_**- Yukaido**_

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><p>"Oh, for God's sake Sherlock!"<p>

John Watson threw the newspaper he had been holding down into his lap angrily, accentuated by a huff of exasperation. He shot a glare across the room at his frankly, utterly, infuriatingly unrepentant roommate.

THUD.

Who was still. Bloody. _Ignoring him._

"Heaven forbid, I actually thought on waking up this morning that I could read the sodding morning paper in peace while Sherlock Holmes was in the room!"

From a few feet away came another stubborn thud of yet another one of the flat's kitchen knives as it was tossed across the room and embedded itself in what was at one time a dartboard.

"If you are going to insist on throwing a fit and tossing things," John rambled on, "you think you could actually use the projectiles that are meant to be used with a dartboard…namely things called _darts…_and not the silverware?"

The word "Bored" was all John got for his trouble. John scrubbed at his face with his hands before gesticulating broadly, eyes raised to the sky.

"Of course! Sherlock Holmes is bored! And so his hapless, guiltless roommate is expected to suffer along with him without complaint as said roommate _punches holes through a dartboard with kitchen utensils."_

"More destructive. That's the point," Sherlock droned on in a decidedly dull tone of voice.

THUD.

"Argh! That's it! We're getting you a hobby! One that does _not_ involve bullets, sharp objects, or the destruction of private property."

"Don't need a hobby, need work," Sherlock said as John once again scrubbed his hands angrily across his face. "A case. An actually interesting case that will take me more than 5 minutes to solve.

_He just continues on as if I don't even exist…_

"Bored." Another knife made its way across the room. Of course, it hit exactly where Sherlock had aimed it. Even when throwing a tantrum, Sherlock Holmes was still a bloody perfectionist.

Another knife somersaulted through the air and hit the target with a satisfyingly loud 'thwack'.

"Booored." He was on his final knife now. The silverware drawer lay distressingly open and bare in the other room. The last piece of cutlery sailed through the air, decidedly dramatic and final as it struck the dead center of the bull's-eye.

"Booooooored!" Sherlock moaned; the end of the word came out muffled in the face of the cushion that Holmes had snatched up and was now pressing violently against his face. John groaned.

"Yes, Sherlock, I get it, you're bored. You're _always_ bored. Unless someone has been brutally poisoned, stabbed, and then consequently murdered, in which then everything is suddenly fascinating. You. Are. Always. Bored. And so what do you do to occupy yourself? You torment me.

John continued to glare across the room at Sherlock, but the other man didn't notice as he had made no move to remove the pillow from his face. A pillow that surely must be causing some complications with breathing at this point.

John threw his hands up in the air with another growl of frustration, before jumping to his feet and crossing the short distance between his chair and the couch to snatch the cushion from Sherlock's grip. Sherlock finally moved his gaze so that he was at least acknowledging John's presence, but that infuriatingly uninterested look was still in his eyes. John paused a few seconds before he spoke again.

"This isn't healthy!" he exclaimed, a slight note of hysteria in his voice as he jabbed the confiscated pillow into Sherlock's line of sight. Said man simply rolled his eyes.

"Seriously Sherlock, you need to find some other activity to occupy your time when you're not on a case that won't give poor Mrs. Hudson another anxiety attack." John sighed tiredly at the end of his statement, flopping back into his seat as the fight quickly draining out of him, replaced with weariness as his rant winded to its close. Sherlock had barely even twitched throughout this whole exchange; the only change now was that the detective's brows were drawn, lips ever so slightly pursed in thought. His eyes remained focused on John's face.

…and half a minute later, that gaze still hadn't moved.

Another groan on the part of one John Hamish Watson.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Deducing. Do be silent."

"Deducing? _ME_? Oh, come on, what's the point in deducing things off me? You _know _you can read me like an open book. In fact, that is something you like to remind me of almost daily. That's not a challenge for that…oversized brain of yours," John grumbled.

"Bored, remember?" came Sherlock's flippant response. John huffed, glancing away from that still insistent stare. A few more minutes passed on in silence before John glanced back at Sherlock's face, still annoyed and made more than a little uneasy by the hardness of that stare.

"Well? Are you done yet?" John asked.

"No…there's something…Something off, something different…" Sherlock mumbled, brows drawing closer together as he tried to puzzle out whatever unsolved mystery his observing mind had stumbled upon. John quirked a brow, his anger giving way to confusion and interest.

"Different?" he asked, leaning forward in his seat.

"Yes…," Sherlock mumbled distractedly, brows still furrowed and eyes darting from side to side, analyzing and storing every detail in that brilliant mind of his, but apparently not the one detail he was searching for.

_Eyes bright, alert. No bags under eyes. Posture forward. Hands clasped. No socks. Damp behind left ear. Showered. New shampoo. Earl Grey Tea with breakfast. Burn on right hand. Cheeks flushed. Pulse elevated. Expression expectant. No underlying guilt._

_ Eyes are very responsive to outside stimuli, and the lack of bags under the eyes suggests an uninterrupted night's sleep. So the nightmares were not a problem to him last night. Possibly even had good dreams, though the subject matter is questionable, especially after learning his intentions towards…that doctors name I never really bothered to remember…ah, Sarah, that's what it was, during the smuggling case. Body leaning forward, an unconscious sign of anticipation for whatever I have to say. Brows are raised, but not guiltily. Not intentionally hiding anything. Could be unaware anything is different. Palms are loosely clasped together, body is relaxed, isn't wearing socks, so he's at ease with his surroundings. Another sign of being guiltless. Hair still isn't dry from morning shower, but he only ever showers in the early mornings when he has clinic later that day. Isn't going in though, he has the day off…ah, those questionable dreams could explain why a shower was required this morning. But again, doesn't add up; I know for a fact that he is not quiet during certain excursions; how could I not after coming home that one week and overhearing that lovely bit with his one week romance upstairs? The brand of shampoo he is using is new, more fragrant, perhaps a hint of citrus? Had a cup of Earl Grey with his breakfast (his favorite brand of tea too, if I'm not mistaken). So feeling in a particularly chipper mood this morning. Well, did, before my rather inventive use of the cutlery. Faint red mark on right pointer finger where he accidentally grazed the side of the pan when cooking breakfast. Made enough for two even though aware I don't require nourishment in the mornings. However, didn't press the normal argument about my lack of a "healthy diet" when I ignored the plate he handed to me. Gesture of fancy then, not a compulsion to put useless calories in my stomach. Cheeks flushed, could be an indicator of raised body temperature…more likely due to the yelling a few minutes ago. Though pulse is still visible in his throat, more elevated than normal. That should be going down by now…_

That is when the realization finally hit.

_New shampoo, unexplained, unnecessary kind gesture, one that ended in injury but garnered no further complaint when not really appreciated, unconscious body language, elevated pulse and flushed skin…_

The comprehension must have shown on Sherlock's face, because John leaned a little further towards him.

"Figured it out then?" John started conversationally.

Sherlock didn't respond, just continued to gaze at John with widened eyes, his silence more disturbing than the often painful accuracy of his spouts of deductions.

John was a little unnerved.

"W-What?" he asked, smiling a little hesitantly, becoming more unsettled the longer it took Sherlock to jump headlong into his findings. A few more seconds passed before Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.

"You like me," he said quietly, but matter-of-factly. John quirked an eyebrow again, still a bit lost.

"Yes. But I thought that was already established," John replied, bemused.

"No, John," Sherlock said calmly, a little louder this time as the idea solidified itself in the detective's mind. "You _like_ me."

It took a few more seconds of putting the pieces together before John understood what Sherlock was saying. When he did, he sat back slowly, his expression becoming reserved and neutral. But never once did he try to turn his face away, his gaze never wavering from Sherlock's.

The detective sat up quietly, keeping his eyes locked with his flatmate's, who still wasn't looking away. John's back was straight, shoulders raised and pulled back in an almost defiant posture, strong; reminiscent of his days served in the British army. Sherlock registered idly that John rather looked like a wall prepared to break the crash of a wave.

"Yes, I do," John said after a few moments, not a drop of hesitancy in his voice, gaze still intently locked with Sherlock's. Sherlock cocked his head to the side, still not breaking away, but with eyes full of a new sense of interest; trying to understand.

"You don't seem bothered by me knowing," Sherlock stated, intrigued. "Aren't you afraid I might get up any second and storm out?"

John snorted.

"Hardly," was the ready reply. "Knowing you and having experienced firsthand all the batshit stuff that happens around you, I don't think you would walk out because of something as dull as your plain, ordinary flatmate admitting that he has feelings for you beyond friendship. You'll probably dismiss the whole thing as trivial and then file it away under the boring category in that huge brain of yours."

Another snort of amusement, followed by an uneasy pause when the statement garnered no further remark.

"…I think."

John trailed off again and Sherlock made no attempt to pick up the conversation where it had left off. He simply continued to gaze at John thoughtfully, but John stood his ground, never once flinching under that all-knowing gaze.

"I'm not ashamed of my feelings," John broke the silence again a few seconds later, forthright and honest. "Just a little worried now on how it's being received." He paused, and ah, there was the hesitancy starting to bleed through. "You seem ok with it."

"Yes…I do, don't I?" Sherlock said wonderingly.

Sherlock stood, finally breaking their contrived eye contact in order to pace slowly, one foot idly in front of the other. The pacing was rather a mechanism to aid his thinking than born of any real agitation, giving his body something to do while his mind twisted and turned and tumbled over the situation presented to him. John's eyes followed his movement, trailing after him and observing those slender hands press together and steeple underneath the detective's sharp chin. John too stood after a few moments, shoulders still straight and proud as he quietly gazed at Sherlock's turned back.

"Sherlock?"

The detective stopped in his musings, and once more turned around to meet the strong, blue eyes of John H. Watson. In that one unsure question, Sherlock could hear every unspoken word that John didn't have the courage to say out loud.

_ You aren't freaking out about this._

_ What now?_

_ What are you thinking?_

_ Where does this leave us?_

_ You're okay with this?_

_ What should I do?_

_ Help me, Sherlock. _

_ …Why?_

"Why, John?" Sherlock asked quietly, moving forward softly and silently until he was mere inches from his flatmate. "Why is this not bothering me as discussions of emotions typically do?" All John could do was swallow inconspicuously, and nod, not daring to speak past the sudden lump in his throat.

_His flatmate. His friend. His __best__ friend…_

Sherlock, after just a moment of insecurity, took that last step forward and closed the distance between him and his friend, gazing down softly into John's blue, blue eyes, anxious, waiting.

"Because…" _The man he is in love with._ "I do believe that I like you too."

And as if the proverbial water had finally broken past the wall, John's lips were on Sherlock's, desperate and full of emotion and the most perfect feeling either men had ever experienced. They kissed long and deep, but it was a chaste kiss, full of the revelation and knowledge, finally, that their feelings were reciprocated in each and every sense. Sherlock's arms wound down to wrap around John's waist, holding him close, and John's hands tangled in Sherlock's brunette curls as they allowed the kiss to linger. It was inexperienced and clumsy, but still the most beautiful kiss the two could have ever shared.

When they finally broke apart a few minutes later, with John's cheeks now most certainly flushed with something other than anger and Sherlock's breaths coming in short puffs against John's face, all they could do was continue to stare at each other, gazes locked, refusing to loosen their hold on the other just yet. And when a wide grin broke out across John's face, Sherlock was helpless to do anything but grin back.

"Well…," John laughed, blue eyes twinkling with happiness as he smiled up into those cool grey orbs, also shining with unreserved merriment and emotion. "Would you look at that."

Sherlock smiled, his eyes once more taking on that sly, teasing look that John could only groan good-naturedly upon seeing.

"Well indeed," Sherlock replied, still grinning inanely. "I seem to have found my new hobby."

A hairs width breath and then John was barking out a laugh of disbelief, shoving Sherlock in the shoulder to a cry of mock complaint from the world's only consulting detective.

Sherlock quickly felt himself pulled back into John's strong hands, and he smirked down at the smaller man as John grinned right back at him.

"Doctors orders, you know," he snickered before reeling Sherlock back in for round two.

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><p><strong>Please read and review!<strong>


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